Over the ensuing couple of weeks, the relationship between Jackson and Claire blossomed. They became firm and trusted friends and they seemed destined to become deep and passionate lovers, too.

They spent every possible minute together; meeting in the Prahran for lunches and going shopping together; there were picnics in the park and along the Yarra River, and then enjoyable jaunts to in St. Kilda Beach and the Esplanade. On Jackson's nights off from work, they would go to the cinema, or out to dinner at their favourite restaurant. He would have flowers sent to her home with sweet, romantic notes included.

He discovered through Claire a sense of humor that he'd thought lost long ago. With her in his life, he felt new and revitalised and he credited it all to her positive outlook on life. Claire managed to find something good and hopeful in everything and everybody. There seemed to be nothing that could get her cheery mood down.

Although he had not realised it, he had not thought about his father, or his need for revenge, in days. The boiling hatred he carried within him was now safely simmering on the back burners of his mind.

Raquel had noticed the shift in his friend's disposition with considerable relief, feeling it was a change for the better. It was certainly far healthier, emotionally and physically, Raquel believed. Jackson was living again; for himself and for Claire Barnett. He didn't appear to be brooding about the dead, and festering on revenge against the living.

Raquel was ecstatic for the youth, for although Jackson hadn't realise it yet, he was in love, and it was a match that Raquel more than approved of, as he found Claire to be a delightful, natural and caring girl.

As for Claire, she was riding high on the crest of a wave of happiness. No one had ever made her feel the way Jackson could. In so many ways, he was still a little boy who needed her; that needed shielding from the atrocities of a secret life that was waging a cruel war deep within him. But in other respects, she knew that he possessed a phenomenal strength that was almost frightening. He may not have been aware of that strength himself, but she saw it in his eyes.

Everything about Jackson intrigued her; from the way he walked and moved, to the rather morose, dogged way that he smiled sometimes. And those eyes! Sometimes they were impenetrable, hidden by a veil that she could not get through. She could tell that he was keeping a large part of himself from her, and she wanted to know why and what it was that he found too awful to share with her. She was fairly certain that it had something to do with his parents, for she could never get him to talk about them. He would always change the topic, or failing that approach, he would just shrug his shoulders and shut up entirely.

It would come in time, if she just let it go for the moment and waited until he felt ready. But in the meanwhile, it was driving her sense of curiosity into a frenzy.

Aside from that, she couldn't have been more pleased with the way their relationship was going. It seemed that it would continue that way, too. Jackson had met her parents on the previous evening, at a dinner arranged by Claire at the family's home in Toorak.

The Barnetts had genuinely liked him, and they had passed away a pleasant evening. Even Luke, who could be indifferent and surly around Claire's boyfriends, had paid the ultimate compliment by describing Jackson as an "O.K. dude" – high praise indeed from her little brother.

The twosome sat together in a McDonalds' restaurant in the city centre, having just devoured their lunch, presently washing it down with a couple of large Cokes. Jackson was smiling as Claire informed him that her brother had called him an “O.K. dude".

"Sounds like dinner last night was a success, then?" he remarked.

"Yeah," Claire replied with her bright smile. "My parents think you're a lovely, wholesome country kid," she said in a partially mocking manner. "Pity they don't know you like I do!" She cried.

He raised one speculative eyebrow at her. "What was that uncalled for comment?" he asked sternly, and she giggled at him, repeating what she'd said. He slid along the counter that they sat at, until he had her backed into a corner, whereupon he commenced to mercilessly tickle her about the ribs. She broke into uncontrollable bursts of laughter and strangled giggling, begging and pleading with him to stop, while their antics caught the attention of the entire restaurant.

"Stop, please! Before I wet myself!" She gasped between bursts of helpless laughter.

"Not until you announce to the world what a wonderful person Jackson Crane is," he ordered her.

"I'd rather piss myself;” she cried teasingly, laughing so hard that tears were streaming out of her eyes. This sent him into an even more determined attack, until he had rendered his victim into a blubbering mass of quivering jelly, gasping to catch it's breath.

"I - give - up!" She panted. "Stop – please - I -give -up! Please!" She cried. Jackson ceased with the torture, and Claire sat up properly, endeavoring to regain her composure, and breath, while wiping the tears from her eyes.

"Now say it," he told her, a wicked grin on his lips.

"Jackson Crane is the most wonderful person in the world," she declared, laughing. He wasn't satisfied and requested that she repeat it, only this time, much louder.

"Jackson Crane is the most wonderful person in the world!" She yelled, smiling into his face. Every person in the place looked round at them quizzically.

"Let's get out of here," Jackson suggested. "You've embarrassed me enough for one day!" He told her, his eyes twinkling mischievously.

She laughed and then took his hand as they left their seats. They ventured out on to the busy Melbourne street arm in arm, peering casually into some of the windows of the stores they passed, as they trekked along the streets.

"I won't be able to see you tonight," Jackson announced.

"Oh no, another woman," Claire cried, playfully aghast. "Or is it one of the drags?"

"Afraid so," he nodded, grinning, and they both laughed, and then he explained how there was a big show on at Jaselle's that night and that it was booked out. It was going to be a hectic night, and he was sure he wouldn't finish work until early in the morning. She understood, and suggested that he give her a call on the next day and then they could make arrangements for something to do over the weekend.

"That sounds good to me," he said as they crossed the street until they got to the tram stop at the end of the Bourke Street Mall. The number 72 tram, bound for Prahran, was making its way towards the stop, so they made their farewells. They kissed each other tenderly, lingering on the taste and touch of each other's lips.

"I’ll call you tomorrow," he said.

“I’ll be waiting; in between flings with my dozens of lovers," she teased him.

He suddenly hugged her, tightly. "Don't ever. It would break my heart," he said in a serious voice.

Claire was moved almost to tears by the raw honesty in his heart felt words. She gazed into his striking face. "I’d never do anything to hurt you, Jackson, not ever," she vowed. They kissed again, with more urgency and passion this time.

The tram ground to a stop and its doors hissed open, audibly breaking the couple apart. Jackson leapt onto his ride, paid his fare, and then sat by a window and smiled at Claire as she stood on the pedestrian isle. The tram then lurched into motion, grumbling with a low, electrical whine as it moved off along its tracks.

Jackson felt intensely happy as he relaxed back into his seat, and yet he was afraid, too. He wondered if he was placing too much trust and love in Claire. He didn't really want an answer. He wanted nothing to spoil those wonderful days of love that he had come to treasure.

Love? Yes, he was in love, and he was being loved! He laughed to himself, forgetting that he was on a crowded tram filled with strangers, and shook his head, grinning dumbly and broadly to himself.

There was a noticeable spring in Jackson's stride as he walked briskly from the tram stop to the front of Jaselle's. He went on inside, finding the place deserted except for Robbie, who was attending to the bar. Pearly was moving around the stage, inspecting it, making sure that everything was in order.

On Jackson's entrance, Pearly looked up at him, her cool eyes narrowing suspiciously. Jackson greeted the old woman cheerily enough, but she just sent him a frozen glare, let out a cynical 'hmph', and then turned on her heel, tittering on her high heels behind the stage wings.

"Just as warm and as lovable as ever," Robbie observed, laughing.

"Yet another victory for the old ‘Jackson Crane Charm’," Jackson mused, and looked over at Robbie. It was then he noticed the muted television above one of the shelves, behind the bar.

It was showing a news report. He could not hear it, but he could clearly see the broad shouldered, demonically handsome man in the finely tailored business suit. Jackson's feet drew him sluggishly closer to the television, while he asked Robbie to reach up and raise the volume; Jackson's eyes remained locked onto the image of the man, of his father, Lloyd Crane.

Lloyd was smiling charmingly at a horde of news reporters, who swept around him like bees, hurling questions at him in rapid succession.

"... Your takeover bid of AHP has been a success. Do you plan to sell off the large portion of its media holdings, and thus cause a media ownership reshuffle?" Asked one reporter.

Lloyd smiled pleasantly, obviously feeling right at home under the scrutiny of the news people and their probing questions.

"At this stage, Crane-Hadley has no plans to sell off any AHP assets. Instead, we would like to broaden our holdings and expand into other areas of industry...”

"Does this mean you'll be joining other prominent Australian businessmen in the media grab?" Asked a second reporter.

Lloyd's face was an indecipherable mask; albeit, a very handsome one. His eyes seemed to flash with dark intelligence.

"As President and Chief Executive of the Board of Crane-Hadley, I'll direct the company into areas which I believe to be the most profitable, and of the most benefit to the Australian people. If that should include the media sector..." his voice trailed off. "Now, if you will excuse me," he said, and with the aid of some body guards, Lloyd pushed his way through the throng of reporters, down to the roadside and to a waiting limousine, which whisked him off to an unknown destination.

The picture on the screen flashed back to an interior of a newsroom and a stone-faced newsreader sitting behind a desk.

"With the hostile takeover of AHP, Lloyd Crane must now be regarded as one of the world's wealthiest and most powerful industrialists. We'll have further details in our main news bulletin at six o’clock...”

Jackson had switched off. His mind was elsewhere; it had slipped back, beyond the past few weeks of joy and adjusting to life outside of Pentoville Prison. His mind tumbled into the sticky tar pit of hatred and rage that had almost drowned him.

Lloyd Crane was now more powerful and richer than ever before even further from Jackson's reach!

"Fuck it!" He spat in frustration, slamming his fist down on the bar.

Robbie looked at the youth with concern and asked him what was wrong. But Jackson didn't hear him. His mind was aching with a thousand images that were flooding his thoughts after weeks of suppression. He fled upstairs, heading for the apartment that he shared with Raquel. He faltered at the door.

He couldn't go in there and face his friend; not yet. He needed time to think. He looked around and saw the stairs that led up to the third floor, to the seemingly sacred abode of the mysterious proprietor of Jaselle's, and its namesake, and where no-one ever went, except for Pearly, who tended to the old woman, and on rare occasions, Raquel.

Up there – alone - he could think, undisturbed. He mounted the staircase, with each step feeling as though he was violating some ancient Egyptian tomb, until at last he reached the summit. He found that there were two large windows by the top of the stairs which looked out at the street below.

He examined the hallway; it was devoid of anything that may have brightened it or made it looked homely .At the end of the hall was a door with a big, brass doorknob. But he turned away from that.

Instead, he leant against the frame of the windows and gazed out across the sky escape, where he lost all sense of time. It became muddled in his myriad of thoughts that he could not push aside. The vengeful hatred had returned to consume him, and he didn't know what to do with it. It was a fast, searing hot energy that, if not spent, would burn him alive. He had to find something onto which he could direct, or else explode. He thought of Claire, and his insides cooled a little.

There were her feelings to consider, too, he realised, and their mutual happiness. He didn't want to lose it, but he also didn't see that he had many choices. He had to be free to pursue his father; besides, he thought it would be safer for Claire not to become too involved in that aspect of his life.

He pounded his fist against the frame of the window. The glass rattled.

'To Hell with you, Lloyd Crane," he hissed to himself.

"Hmm… and what do you know of Hell, child?"

He spun around in alarm to confront the one who had intruded upon his private moment of reflection. He found before him an old crow of a woman with a mass of silver hair pulled back into a tight, perfect bun. The face was cut and slashed by more decades than Jackson was ever likely to see. But the eyes were bright, big, and quick to observe. They were of a colour not unlike Jackson's own.

The old woman's frame was small and slight, and she seemed incredibly frail and dainty. She leant upon a walking a stick held in her left hand. It was a fine mahogany cane, tipped and capped with silver with a feline motif: a cat’s head with emerald eyes crowned the cane, and a silver tail traced a route part way down the length of it, and the handle. The old woman's liver spotted hands were small but shapely, with thin aristocratic fingers, which were naked of jewelry.

The old woman held his gaze intensely. "You are Jackson," she stated.

It dawned upon him that the old woman was Old Jaselle; the ancient hermaphrodite and namesake of the nightclub.

She studied the youth with a not unkind eye.

“You’re..." he began, but she interrupted.

"Jaselle, yes," she nodded. "But you will call me Old Jas, as all my children do," she told him, smiling at him in a grandmotherly fashion. "Please, join me in my suite," she said, and gestured to the opened door at the end of the hall. "I would like to talk awhile with you, child." Her voice was light, but crackled with age, yet it paradoxically exuded a child-like quality.

As if in a dream, Jackson moved ahead of the woman, venturing towards her suite. Inside he found that it was not what he had expected. He had envisioned it to be similar to Raquel's; crammed with knick-knacks and lavishly furnished. But rather, he found it to be desolate and dimly lit.

It seemed sterile and there was a heavy, rank and musty odor that lingered in the air. There were no mirrors in the living room, nor were there any elaborate light fixtures. In terms of furniture, he noted was an antique and hard looking sofa; a couple of chairs that matched, and a coffee table. There was an old wireless by one wall and an antique gramophone, as well as a large marble fireplace with an old clock on the mantle piece, both of its hands were – curiously - missing. There was a door at the rear of the room, which he supposed led to the kitchen area, and perhaps the bathroom and bedroom.

Heavy drapes hung across the two large windows in the living area, allowing barely any light to intrude into the room. The floor was covered by a wide rug that had to be at least forty years old. He decided that the rug was partly to blame for the musty smell.

He scanned the room one more time. Its bareness depressed him. It also told him something about its lone occupant, but he wasn't precisely sure what. Why did he feel so uncomfortable in that room? It was so cold and empty...It reminded him of prison.

He turned to face Old Jas, who'd had closed the door and was now taking a seat on the old sofa, holding on fast to her cane. She tapped the tip of it, seemingly unconsciously, against the leg of the wooden coffee table.

She was punishing herself, Jackson realised, and he wondered for what?

Old Jas smiled broadly at him and with her well polished cane, she motioned for him to join her on the sofa. He discovered it to be even harder and more uncomfortable than he had originally supposed.

He sat to one side of her, facing her on an angle. In the gloomy room, her face looked even more battered; entire features were lost in black canyons engraved in her face, but he could seen the fine bone structure beneath the sags and wrinkles. He felt certain that she had been a beautiful woman, more than sixty years ago.

"How old and haggard I must appear to such a young and beautiful lad, such as you are," Old Jas murmured, but not with bitterness. "How old are you, child?"

"I'm eighteen," he told her, with the pride only those on the underside of adulthood can afford..

"Oh my… Eighteen," she said with a big smile, as if she'd woken from a wonderful dream. "Goodness, that was a long time ago." she sighed. "Raquel thinks so very much of you. She loves you like a young brother," she remarked.

"Raquel means a lot to me, too. He's done so much for me. I owe Raquel a big debt."

"Mmm. Debts are heavy things to pay," Old Jas said quietly in a dreamy voice. She appeared to regain her focus. "Pearly, on the other hand, distrusts you."

Jackson smiled wanly to himself. He liked the old woman's directness. "I don't think she likes me," he agreed readily. "I don't know why. I haven't done anything against her."

"I don't doubt that you speak the truth, child. Pearly can be a flighty old bird," she smiled pleasantly. "She means well, but she tends to get over protective, especially of me. Honestly, sometimes I think she's going to mother me to death. And I am a good thirty years older than her, tool" she cried with good-natured indignation. "Be patient with Pearly, child. I'm sure you'll charm her in time, too."

"Maybe," he nodded, but he didn't sound too convinced.

There was a moment’s silence as the old woman studied Jackson's face. "You have a fine face. Beautiful bone structure… and such lovely skin."

"Um… thanks," he said, somewhat embarrassed by her comments.

She leant closer to him, relying on her cane for support. Her eyes squinted as she concentrated on his face and form. "Please, lean forward, that I may see you more clearly," she asked.

He did as she asked. Her eyes seized his with their power, absorbing his full attention. Her old eyes seemed to swell and grow, filling his vision and his mind. Great kindness lived in what he saw, and a mind as sharp as any razorblade; a mind as shrewd as any businessman's - Lloyd Crane, for example. On that thought, a mushroom cloud of hatred filled Jackson, its radioactive waste poisoning every single atom of his being.

"So much rage and hate for one so young," the old woman said sadly, almost to herself. "You have gone beyond the point of ever simply letting it go." She appeared unhappy at making this observation.

Old Jas straightened in her seat. “The path you wish to pursue will bring only pain and misery, but not only to you, but to all those you come in contact with. I beseech you, child, find some other way to come to terms with your anger, before it destroys you."

He stared at her in astonishment. Was she psychic? A mind reader? Weren't hermaphrodites, of the Middle Ages, thought to possess wondrous powers - hadn't Raquel said something like that to him a couple of days ago? Or was that just a part of folklore? He would have thought so, before meeting this woman who seemed to know exactly what he was feeling, even better than Jackson himself.

"I can't just let it go," he told her blankly. He didn't fully understand why he was talking to her about any of this, but in away, it was a relief. “I came close to forgetting. But something happened and I won't forget again. I have to follow it through to the end."

Old Jas nodded as she sunk back into the sofa, becoming partially lost in the shadows. "Then I shall pray for you, child," she said.

Jackson's laughter was filled with scorn and had a hard, biting edge to it. "I don’t have much faith in prayer, Old Jas. I gave up on God the day my mother died, after years and years of pain. No-one deserves to die that kind of death," he said coldly. "Tell me, what sort of god is He?" he asked her.

Old Jas didn't respond, so he went on.

"My father lives a life of luxury and leisure, with his evil wife. Together, they've committed murder! And look at them now! Blessed with everything that's fine and glamorous! What sort of god allows that? Tell me?" He cried bitterly.

Old Jas smiled knowingly from her place on the sofa. "You have already found the answer to your own question, child. But you are too blind with your pain to see it just yet. But you will, although I fear you will see the answer when it is too late to save yourself. But maybe… yes, just maybe you will see it in time to save someone else, if you so choose."

He frowned, not understanding the riddle behind her prophecy.

"Oh dear, yes - what sort of lives does your father and his wife lead?” Old Jas echoed. “Not happy ones, I assure you. They suffer, child, in their own way, for the crimes that they have committed. But they will suffer more when it comes their time to be Judged," she promised him.

“There is no Judgement. We've only got what is here and now. I will be their judge," he boasted.

"If you really believe that, then you're a sadder boy than I first imagined," she said wistfully. "So how do you intend to carry out this judgement you propose against your father, hmm?"

Jackson appeared less certain of himself, for that was a question that he had no answer to. But he would find one, in the due course of time.

"I'm not sure," he said truthfully. “Actually, I was half thinking that - that you might help me...”

"I?" she cried, amazed. He nodded, and then asked himself what had made him think that Old Jas would be able to help him in his plight for revenge? He had no idea. He only remembered that when Raquel had first spoken of the old woman, a shiver had gone through his body, touching his soul. It’d felt like a premonition. He’d believed at that moment, that Old Jas would effect his future in some significant manner; in the area concerning his father.

"I fail to see how I can help you achieve your ends," Old Jas stated. "I am just a tired old woman, who has made more bad decisions in her life than most people will make in several lifetimes. I charge you, child, not to pursue this path that you are so eager to follow. Think of what you will lose along the way - that special girl who has come into your life...”

Jackson's brow creased, as he wondered how she knew about Claire. He asked her if Raquel had been talking to her about him.

"No," she replied, looking so wise and content.

"Then how do you know so much about - "

"Call it a gift… in lieu of the body that I was given," she answered him.

There came a rapping at the door and presently Pearly entered the suite. When she saw that Jackson was sitting with the old woman, she raised one critical eyebrow. "What are you doing here?" she demanded of him.

He stood up and faced Pearly. "Er, I was just - " But Pearly passed him by, head held stiff and high, and moved to Old Jas' side.

"I don't care to hear it," she cried, then more gently she said to Old Jas; "It's time for your dinner. Here, let me help you up." Pearly put her hand around on of Old Jas' thin little arms. The grand old lady rose slowly with Pearly's aid, and the help of her cane-

"Be on your way, boy,”. Pearly muttered to Jackson.

He turned to leave, but Old Jas called out after him. "Good bye, child. Think about what we have spoken of, won't you?" she urged him.

"I will, " he promised before he slipped quickly from the room.